


Yellow

by tacitly



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Angst, M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacitly/pseuds/tacitly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a sliver of truth behind every joke. (Batman/Robin, slight Joker/Robin)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow

_In Robin's dreams, the daylight chases him. He flies through the night sky with ease, cutting through the air with cartwheels and twirls in a muddled flash of bright colors. An audience's applause was his substitute for courage back at the circus, pumping adrenaline through cheers and claps, leaving no time for second guesses. In Gotham, there is only reckless abandon. The bat rope is his trapeze now, and in the darkness he paints the looming buildings with flashes of red, green, and yellow in the short moments he passes them. During the day, he shares the city with all of Gotham's residents. At night, the city is a stage-- and it is his alone._  

_In his dreams, there is always Gotham, and there is always Robin. Sometimes he sees Batman in his dreams. Never Bruce, whose nighttime existence is limited to turning off the bedside lamp and a "goodnight, Dick." And in his dreams, Batman is always silent. He hides in the darkest corners of the city, blending into the alleys and nooks with his black cowl. Sometimes, when Robin is leaping across the rooftops, the air bends, pulling all of the buildings and all of the streetlights in with it. He crashes into doors and windows as the force pulls him along, glass shattering and previously dormant car alarms shrieking into the moving space. And it all ends with Batman, as he silently tucks the city away into his cape._  

_Gotham isn't yellow or red or green; Gotham is black as the night. And the night belongs to Batman._

 

 

*

 

  

When Alfred informs him that he has been invited  to a party on Saturday night (he knows better:  _Bruce_ has been invited; "Bruce and his ward," reluctantly), he tries to hide his dismay. Parties have lost their allure as the years have gone by, becoming a source of anxiety instead of festivity as expectations mount with his age. But such events are nothing short of mandatory for the ward of a billionaire businessman, and Dick would never think to complain. He smiles graciously and thanks Alfred for notifying him, but the butler gives him a small,sympathetic smile that tells him he hasn't been so convincing.

As Alfred disappears from the bedroom doorway, Dick turns to the closet. His two suits hang next to Bruce's many, significantly smaller.  

Most of Bruce's attire is suits. All the formal meetings and press conferences that his job is comprised of require a suit, and social events--extensions of work, disguised as entertaining parties--require even more. Bruce's playboy reputation would be ruined without a pretty girl on his arm. "A social requirement," Bruce always tells him. And one of these days, Dick knows he will be expected to bring his own company.  

But for now, all he requires is proper attire and a proper attitude. The hangers clang together discordantly as he shuffles through his suit options: dark blue, grey, black, white. He settles on black, taking down the stiffly-ironed suit and examining it the full-body mirror, pressing it against his body and smothering the newly acquired creases as he frowns at his reflection. Something is missing.  

"I assume Alfred told you about the party Saturday night?" 

He turns, startled, to see Bruce leaning slightly against the door frame, hands in his pockets.

"He mentioned it just a while ago. Do you think this suit's all right, Bruce? I thought black would be--" 

"Would you like to bring someone this time?" Bruce interrupts, calmly. "Perhaps Barbara Gordon. You seem to get along."  

Dick feels his grip on the suit loosen just slightly, feels his composure faltering with the sudden suggestion--no, not a suggestion, but a command--and quickly pulls himself together a second too late. He sees Bruce's gaze move from his hands to meet his eyes again, can see the man studying him carefully. But for what, he can't figure out.  

"Sure, thanks Bruce," he says, and forces a smile.

  

 

* 

 

 

The doorbell rings. Its soft echo breaks his concentration, his careful smile in the mirror. Shallow ridges are embedded on his palms from where he grabbed the bathroom counter, disappearing as quickly as his heartbeats escalate, and he attempts to descend the center staircase looking as regal as Bruce. All he can hear in his heavy footsteps is hesitance. 

"Barbara," he greets her, "you look beautiful." He thanks her for coming, smiling, and realizes with some surprise that he is genuinely happy to see her despite the occasion.  

When he leans in to give a cordial kiss on the cheek, she swerves gracefully and gives him a small hug instead. "And you look very handsome, yourself, Dick," she says with an amused smile.  

He finds himself relax, shoulders dropping slightly, only to stiffen up instantly again upon wondering why.  

The girl in the dark purple dress in front of him may not be Batgirl at the moment, he reminds himself, but Barbara Gordon is one and the same no matter what her attire.  

So he takes her gloved hand, with a wide grin, and leads her on a tour of the mansion as they chat about the alleys at night and the narrow escapes that, in civilian clothing, they almost forget is shared knowledge. "This is the first time you've been here on your time off, right?" He asks. He shows her the library, the study, the kitchen, and takes her upstairs to show her to his room. "This is my room," he tells her, scanning it quickly for any sign of a last-minute mess he might have forgotten to clean--cast-away casual clothes, a forgotten comb--and upon seeing nothing, he leads her in. "Well, Bruce's room, too." 

Barbara's hand tightens around his, for just a second. She quickly relaxes it, as if correcting a mistake. "Oh?" Is all she says.  

The doorbell rings once again, and this time Dick lets Alfred answer it. Bruce enters the main hall from the sitting room, adjusting his gold cufflinks and greeting his date with a courteous smile--the same stilted smile Dick has seen him use countless times for television and difficult clients. His mouth is turned just barely upwards, almost as if he is embarrassed by his expression. 

"It's good to see you again," he says softly, "you look lovely." Then, turning to Dick and Barbara: "Is everyone ready?"  

His gaze lingers on the pair, and he catches Dick's eyes briefly. He smiles again, slightly--that same careful formula for a tilt of the lips: practiced, cold. Dick feels it in his chest immediately. It climbs up his veins with a sickening burn and weighs heavy in his feet, hours later at the ballroom, when society whispers to him and directs him to dance. 

The ballroom is ablaze with color. Dresses twirl in red, blue, orange, green, purple, every color Dick can imagine, and it's almost like home. In his mind, he turns the dancing women into tightrope walkers, fire breathers, trapeze artists, and acrobats. But this time it isn't enough.  

_One two three, one two three, one two three._  His shoes hit the polished wood floor with far more force than could ever be considered graceful, and all he can do is try to maneuver around the flurry of long dresses and shiny black shoes that share the dance floor. Barbara's hand sits gently in his, and his other hand rests on her the curve of her back lightly as they dance. His eyes flit restlessly, back and forth, from her face to Bruce's waltzing outline. 

Bruce used to tell him dancing was like fighting: intuitive, but improved with practice. Spin through pairs of ball gowns and suits, swerve around skyscrapers by redirecting the batline. Twirl your date with your fingertips barely touching, knock out your enemies but never kill. Even in the crowd of the ballroom, Dick can easily spot him by his dancing. And for a split second, Bruce glances in his direction. Their eyes meet, briefly, and Dick instinctively turns away. 

"Dick."  

He focuses his attention fully on Barbara now, on her worried face. "You seem... tired," she says, slowly, "We could take a break, and--"  

It happens so fast he doesn't have time to warn her. An eruption of shattering glass echoes throughout the ballroom as the windows on the west wall break with a sickening crunch. Dick grabs Barbara's hand tightly, desperately searching the crowd for Bruce again as he makes his way to the exit.   

"Dick." 

\--Bruce's voice, this time. He turns his head. "Dick," Bruce says, almost a whisper, "Let's go."

  

 

*

 

  

The party guests are backing up into the wall, clutching each other and letting out frightened sobs into their gloved hands. Bruce's date stands in the middle of the ballroom, speechless, a knife to her throat as the Joker clutches her wrists from behind. "I heard it was someone's birthday!" he sings, and, upon spotting Batman, "care to join me in a birthday waltz, Batsy?" 

And Robin wouldn't dare move his eyes from the clown, but even without glancing in Batman's direction he can see the man's jaw tense, hear the muscles tighten.  

All it would take is one word to set off the Joker's impulse and sway his careless hand to violence. But words have always been a luxury, and Robin has learned to operate on a wholly different plane. As soon as Batman sets into motion, Robin moves in to take on the Joker's henchmen, tag-teaming with Batgirl to ensure the safety of the surrounding guests. He ducks to dodge a punch from a large man in a Greek mask, spinning low to take him out with a swing kick. Batgirl crashes into a buffet table after a blow to the head, but recovers just in time to kick the attacker in the jaw.  

Robin steals a glance in Batman's direction to find that his date is already safe, surrounded by a crowd of concerned guests and donning one man's blazer lightly on her shoulders, shaking. Batman has the Joker alone, chasing him as he stumbles through a circle of panicked women. It all seems too simple. There are no elaborate ploys, no garish accessories.  

Then the room fills with purple smoke. Robin joins the party guests in a chorus of coughing, caught unprepared. The ballroom is fuzzy as the smoke swallows the vibrant ball gown color. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy as he tries in a panic to keep his eyes open and stay alert. He feels large hands on his shoulders, two pairs of arms swung under his. And then he's moving, watching his feet drag helplessly. The last thing he sees through the haze is Batman, furious, stunned by his ineptitude.  _"Why weren't you prepared for this?"_ His expression says. 

"Sorry," he wants to answer, "I'm sorry. I don't know." He can feel his mouth forming the words, but there is no vibration in his throat to signal the release of any sound. 

 

 

* 

 

 

When he wakes up, he realizes with a sinking feeling the reason for the lack of creative clown props. His wrists are chafed, aching with the burn of thick rope cutting at his skin. The room is empty, save for his chair, and he wonders how long he has been here like this. Panic swells in his chest when he realizes that he has been stripped of all his weapons and equipment. He tries to steady himself, reminding himself that this is not the first time he's been in this position. Batman is certainly in no danger--he's always been able to handle everything by himself. And Batgirl-- 

Batgirl is probably with Batman. Robin has no doubt that  _she_  reacted quickly enough to the explosion of smoke and, with a twinge of jealousy, he pictures her fighting back-to-back with Batman as he praises her for her speedy reflexes. But he is quick to dismiss the image. Batman has never been the type for praise, anyway.  

"Boy Wonder, so nice of you to drop in." Gloved hands cover his eyes. "Guess who?"  

"Take your hands off of me," Robin growls. His wrists feel suddenly thicker, the rope tighter as his hands ache to pry the Joker's fingers off.  

The Joker removes his hands with a "tsk" and saunters into Robin's view. He stands in front of the chair with a smirk, twirling something behind his back. Robin strains to see the object through the blur of its spinning motion. His stomach drops when he recognizes it as a crowbar.  

Noticing his body tense, the Joker chuckles and moves in closer. He lifts his arms over Robin's head, laying them on his shoulders and holding the crowbar parallel to the chair's back, just inches away, and sits on his lap, straddling him. He leans in, as if to whisper, but instead blows air into Robin's ear. Robin jolts, heart racing, and stiffens as the Joker laughs maniacally, dropping his head to rest on the boy's shoulder.  

Suddenly, the Joker bolts up. Annoyance flashes across his face, and his painted lips fall as his laughter dies. "You're not even trying," he groans. "Just gonna wait here for Batsy?" 

Robin says nothing. He has learned, after all these years, that words are nothing but ammunition for the clown--anything he says will surely be twisted, used to goad him on somehow. 

"What a disappointment," the Joker sighs, looking angry now. He pauses. "How can we make this more  _fun_?"  

He studies Robin's face, eyes narrowing as if he's searching for something.  

"You like this, don't you?" He says, slowly. "This damsel in distress routine. You  _love_  it.  _That's_  why you're being so  _boring_."

He re-situates himself to make himself more comfortable, his weight shifting on Robin's thighs. He waits for a reaction, a fleeting change in the boy's expression, but his efforts go unrewarded.

"I bet it's your favorite training exercise. The old bat sits you down in some chair just like this one and ties you up real tight, then watches you squirm as you try to undo the ropes." Robin shifts under him uncomfortably, and the clown laughs loudly. "I'm right, aren't I? And I bet you get off on it, too. I bet you close your eyes in bed and think about--" 

"Shut up!" Robin exclaims, through clenched teeth. He can feel his face reddening, both with anger and--  

And hates himself for letting the Joker get under his skin. His breathing is faster now, and as he feels the Joker move with his breath, he knows that he must realize it too. The clown scoots in closer, closing around him tightly with his thighs as he leans in.  

"No need to get all worked up now, Boy Wonder," he says, and he's so close now that Robin can't see his expression properly anymore, but he can practically hear him smirk. "I doubt your sick fantasy is one-sided. He parades you around in  _tight green shorts_ , for Christ's sake, and you can be damn sure it's for no one's benefit but his own. But really, you can't expect anything more from a man who dresses up as a  _bat_  every night-- poor Batsy's just got a few screws loose. And he has the nerve to masquerade as a vigilante when he dresses his own sidekick up like some tranny hooker. It's funny, isn't it? It's  _funny!_ " 

No response. The Joker frowns deeply, his mouth turning upside down grotesquely. "Not even a chuckle? Kids these days have no appreciation for irony." He sighs. "You're boring me again. You wouldn't like me when I'm bored." 

Furious, Robin can't hold his tongue any longer. "I'm not here to entertain you," he spits. He tries to rock the chair forward and throw the Joker off of his lap, but the chair doesn't budge an inch under both their weight.

"Oh, but you are. I brought you here expressly for that purpose." 

The Joker stands up, finally, and grins wildly. He holds the crowbar above his head and savors the confused fear in Robin's eyes just for a second before striking.

 

 

*

 

 

Batgirl is down the hallway taking out henchmen when Batman kicks open the door to see Robin, beaten, slumped in a wooden chair in the center of the room. A shiny present bow sits lazily atop the boy's bent-back head.  

" _Joker,_ " he hisses, through clenched teeth. 

But the Joker is long gone, though the room seems almost to echo with his cloying laughter. Batman unties the rope behind the chair as fury builds, pumping unneeded adrenaline through his veins. 

"Robin," Batman tries, "Robin, can you hear me? Can you move?"  

When he gets no response, he picks the boy up and carries him out. Robin is limp in his arms, and the weight of the boy surprises him. He's getting older, now, Batman thinks, somewhat wistfully despite the circumstances. But his face still retains the same boyish quality that he had all those years ago, when Batman first took him in as his ward. Now, though, his face is marred with a black eye and a small stream of blood that falls from the corner of his mouth. His lips are stained red with fresh blood, while in his hair the blood is already drying, pooling in small clots that clump the strands together. Inexplicably, Batman can't help but fixate on the boy's mouth. The distraction terrifies him, but for once he lacks the discipline to break his eyes away from the small parting of his lips. 

Robin comes to in the passenger's seat of the Batmobile just as they are arriving home, waking with a jolt. "Batman," he says, once he has gathered his surroundings, "I didn't -- I wasn't --" he stammers, then settles with, "I should have been prepared." He focuses his gaze on the speedometer, not daring to steal a glance at the man's stoic profile.

 

 

* 

 

 

Alfred greets the duo as they return to the Batcave, and Bruce retires to their room without so much as a single word to Dick. 

"You must remember," Alfred says gently, "that Master Bruce often conceals his concern with anger."  

And Dick knows already, has been through this more times than he can count, but hearing the words from Alfred somehow puts him at ease. "Right…. thanks, Alfred."  

Then, after a long silence: "The Joker…" he starts, then pauses, as if unsure of how he wants to phrase his thought. "Do you ever think there's any truth to what he says?" 

Alfred takes a moment to consider the question. He looks conflicted, as if wondering whether to answer the question honestly or to give the "right" answer.  

"There is a sliver of truth behind every joke." 

 

 

* 

 

 

_In Batman's dreams, he chases yellow. The musty smell of stale rain on pavement is almost overwhelming, much stronger than it should be. Streetlights line the empty roads like sentry towers, daring a step past the tar and into the private alleyways that shouldn't be familiar to Bruce Wayne, the inner city maze only_ Batman _knows--as intimately as the scars that cross and tangle on the skin of his back. But not a single streetlight is lit, and even his night vision seems to be malfunctioning. His view alternates from light green to black in small bursts of activation. Through both views, the yellow cape ahead of him cuts through the darkness, almost glowing._  

_The caped figure rounds a corner, fumbling through a thin alley with a startling lack of grace. Batman reaches out. He grabs the cape for just a second before it slips from his grasp, flowing away into the night again, into impossible distances and yet just within his reach. They round another corner, only to reach a partition between alleys, a brick wall the size of a one-story house. The figure stops. Waits._

_This time, Batman gets a steady hold of the yellow fabric. The handful of yellow crumples in his grip as he tugs at the cape, hard, and grabs the figure's shoulder._  

_"What's the matter, Batman?" The figure says, stumbling into the brick as Batman turns him around forcefully. A high-pitched voice: a squeaky, falsetto mimicry of Robin's. "Aren't you glad to see me?" And he's dressed just like Robin, down to the pointy green boots. He reaches up to touch Batman's face, and caresses his cheek with a trembling hand. Fingertips explore his cloaked face, the edge of his jaw, tracing the muscles with feigned hesitance. The fingers shake erratically, almost as if they are laughing._  

_In the foggy haze of a dream, it takes him much longer than it should to notice. The domino mask covers the wrinkles around the man's eyes, but the smile is unmistakable. Thick white paint discolors the row of hair that crowns his forehead, reaching just the roots, and powders the edges of his black mask. There are cracks in the paint just around the edges of his lips as he smiles._

_The hand on Batman's cheek moves swiftly, the thumb hooking onto the corner of his mouth and forcing it upward. "Won't you smile for Robin, Batsy?"_  

_His grip loosens, slowly, and the cape's pale yellow fabric slips through his fingers like water._


End file.
